Page 23 of Puck Wild (Storm Warning #1)

Chapter sixteen

Evan

M y equipment bag had exactly seventeen items, arranged in the same order every day. I placed the helmet in the bottom right corner, nested the shoulder pads against the left side, and tucked the gloves into the specific pocket that kept them from getting crushed.

It was a system that worked—had worked for three years without fail—until somehow four empty protein bar wrappers infiltrated the sacred space like contraband. I was elbow-deep in hockey gear archaeology when the combat boots announced themselves.

The sound pattern was too deliberate to be accidental foot traffic. Someone approached with intent, and in my experience, that never ended well.

I kept my head down, focusing on extracting the wrappers. The boots stopped two feet from my equipment bag.

"Evan Carter."

I looked up. Juno Park leaned on a support beam like she'd been there all day, one shoulder pressed against the painted concrete, coffee mug steaming in her left hand. The late October wind had slightly mussed her blue hair, and she held her digital recorder in her right palm.

"Juno." I crumpled the wrappers in my palm. "Interview's over. Jake already gave you enough material to boost your download numbers."

"I've got Jake's story." She sipped her coffee. "I'd like yours, too."

I looked up. "That's not necessary. Jake's the one people Google."

"You might be right, but what if one foster kid hears you and thinks, 'Maybe I don't have to white-knuckle it alone'?"

She didn't play fair.

The suggestion landed—right between my ribs. All of my carefully organized defenses failed to protect me. My shoulders locked up, a familiar tension that told me someone had gotten too close to something true.

"I'll think about it."

Juno didn't move from her spot against the beam. "We're recording Thursday. You're bringing cookies. That's the deal."

I blinked at her. "That's not how deals work. Both parties have to agree."

"You already agreed. It just hasn't made it from your heart to your head yet." Her smile was sharp and warm at the same time, like good whiskey.

"Honestly, why me?"

"Jake talks about second chances. You'd be talking about the first ones.

About what it looks like when someone who never had a foundation finally gets to build one.

" Juno pushed off from the beam, straightening to her full height.

"Someone needs to say that being the responsible one doesn't mean you're not allowed to want things. "

I realized she wasn't asking me to be vulnerable for Jake, the podcast, or even the hypothetical foster kid who might be listening.

She was asking me to do it for me.

"Thursday," I said. "What time?"

"Eight. After Common Thread closes." Juno's grin was victorious, but not unkind. "And Evan? Bring the good cookies. The ones with cornflakes."

She walked away, combat boots echoing off the concrete. I sat there for another minute, surrounded by perfectly organized gear and the growing realization that I'd agreed to something frightening.

But for once, the fear came from a choice, not an accident.

***

When I entered the Common Thread's back room after closing, it was like landing on a different planet.

Gone were the afternoon bustle and the clatter of ceramic mugs against saucers.

Now it was only me, Juno, and the soft mechanical hum of the espresso machine winding down.

She'd dimmed the overhead lights to a warmer level, and the whole space felt smaller.

Intimate in a way that gave me goosebumps.

"Tea?" Juno gestured toward a collection of mismatched mugs arranged on a side table.

"I'm good." I was too keyed up for hot beverages, too aware of the microphone sitting between us like a loaded weapon.

My chair squeaked when I shifted my weight. I froze, then carefully adjusted my position until I found the sweet spot where the springs didn't protest. I settled my hands into my lap and stayed there, fingers laced together like I was at confession.

I suppose that was accurate.

Juno settled across from me with her mug—something herbal that smelled like my grandmother's house. She clicked her recorder on, and a tiny red light blinked to life.

I braced myself for the inevitable questions about foster care and trauma and all the ways my childhood had been a systematic disaster. Instead, she tilted her head and asked: "Do you think what you're building with Jake means you're finally letting go of control?"

I blinked. "What?"

"Control. Your spreadsheets, labels, and color-coded everything." She leaned back in her chair, completely relaxed. "Is Jake teaching you to let go?"

The question caught me so off-guard I almost laughed. "I'm still the guy with a backup spreadsheet for my sock drawer."

Juno nodded like I'd said something profound, then did the cruelest thing possible.

She waited.

Silence spread into every corner of the small room. The espresso machine hissed softly. Somewhere in the distance, a car door slammed. I heard my own breathing, too loud in the quiet space.

I blurted out the first words that entered my head.

"Jake isn't my chaos. He's my compass."

As soon as I said it, something loosened inside me. A lock opened, or a held breath finally released. The truth of my comment startled me—raw, unvarnished, and more honest than I'd been with myself in months.

Juno raised an eyebrow, but she didn't pounce on the admission. She merely nodded.

"Tell me more about that."

As she spoke, for the first time in my life, I realized I wanted to.

"I spent eighteen years learning that people leave," I heard myself saying. "Foster families, social workers, teammates. So you build systems. You control what you can control because everything else is just... disarray waiting to destroy you."

Juno didn't interrupt.

"When Jake showed up, he was supposed to be temporary.

Another roommate situation that would last until something different came along.

" I stared at my hands. "But in less than a month, he's rearranged everything—not my stuff, but.

.. me. He's made me want things I didn't think I was allowed to want. "

"Like what?"

The question quietly demanded an answer. I could have deflected and gone with something safe about friendship or team chemistry. Instead, I leaned forward, releasing words I'd saved for years.

"Like believing someone might choose to stay.

Not because they have to, and not because it's convenient, but because they want to.

" My voice was rough and raw. "Jake doesn't need my systems or my organization.

He's got his own style, his own way of navigating the world.

Still, he comes home to my labeled spice rack and my color-coded everything, and somehow he makes it feel like. .. like maybe I'm not too much work."

Juno set down her mug. "And now?"

"Now there's a scout coming, and I'm terrified Jake will realize he was supposed to want more than Thunder Bay and a guy who makes spreadsheets for fun." I exhaled slowly. "I'm even more scared of not telling him the truth about what he means to me."

When the interview was over and we stepped outside, the cold air was like a slap to the face. It was sharp, clean, and cut through my jacket, making my breath visible in small, urgent puffs.

I walked Juno toward the street where her beat-up Honda waited under a flickering streetlight. The car looked like it had survived several apocalypses and was preparing for the next one.

"Thank you," she said, stopping beside her driver's door.

I shoved my hands deep into my pockets. "For what? I barely said anything useful."

"Not for content." Juno's smile was softer than I'd ever seen it. "For trust."

Trust. Such a small thing, but it felt enormous. I'd spent most of my life rationing it, doling it out in careful portions to people who'd earned it through demonstrated reliability and consistent behavior patterns.

Tonight, I'd handed it over to a near-stranger with blue hair and a digital recorder, and somehow the world hadn't ended.

Before I could process what was happening, Juno stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me. I stiffened instinctively—every muscle locking up like a startled deer.

Touch was always transactional. Medical, athletic, strategic.

Never just… offered, but then something in my brain caught up and I leaned into the hug, a half-second too late to make it graceful.

Her jacket smelled like coffee and something floral, and she was smaller than I'd expected, solid but not imposing.

I couldn't remember the last time someone outside the locker room, other than Jake, had touched me without tape or padding between us. The realization hit me sideways, unexpected and a little devastating.

When we separated, Juno stepped back and studied my face in the amber streetlight. I thought she was trying to decide whether to say something.

She cradled her chin in one hand and spoke. "You know what I realized during that interview?"

"What?"

"You've been talking about your systems and organization like they're armor, a way of keeping the world from getting too close." She tilted her head. "But that's not what they are anymore, is it?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you don't organize your spice rack alphabetically because you're afraid of disorder. You do it because when Jake comes home and sees it, he smiles." Her voice was gentle but confident. "You're not building walls anymore, Evan. You're building a home. There's a difference."

I instantly knew she was right. She rewrote everything I thought I knew about myself in only a few sentences. All those lists, labels, and color-coded systems I'd thought were about control... they weren't shields anymore.

They were invitations.

A way of saying, "Look, I made this beautiful, organized space. Will you share it with me?"

She opened her car door. "Hey, Evan?"

"Yeah?"

"That compass thing? That's going to matter. More than you know."

She climbed into the Honda, and I watched her navigate the complicated process of getting the engine to turn over—three tries, a concerning grinding noise, and then success. The headlights swept across me as she pulled away, leaving me alone under the amber streetlight.

The cold seeped through my jacket, but I didn't move. The world was different—not bigger, exactly, but broader. Someone had adjusted the aperture on my personal camera lens and let in more light.

I pulled out my phone and scrolled to Jake's contact. Then, I started typing half a dozen messages that all sounded wrong.

Just did something terrifying.

Told Juno you're my compass.

Pretty sure I just grew as a person and it was awful.

I deleted them all and stared at the blank message field, cursor blinking expectantly. In the distance, a freight train called out, its horn echoing off the downtown buildings before fading into the Thunder Bay night.

I closed the message app without typing anything and slipped the phone back into my pocket.

Some things were better said in person.

Some things needed the right moment.

The right words.

The right courage.

As I walked back to my car, I smiled at nothing in particular, and for once, I didn't try to organize it into something more manageable.

I let myself exist.